Slippery When Wet
by englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: -Find this on AO3, same username- When John's return to London reunited him with some old rugby mates, they unanimously insisted that the proper cure for his limp was a quick trip to Las Vegas. A few pints, a casino or two, and they'd be on their way home. But there was one thing John Watson hadn't gambled on… (Johnlock AU-Different 1st Meeting/Implied Suicidal Thoughts/Fluff/Smut)
1. One Wild Night

"It's a hot night – the natives are restless," one of them joked as they rounded the corner to the strip.

"These aren't natives, they're tourists. And of course it's hot, we're in the middle of the bloody desert. Remind me which one of you tossers thought this would be a good holiday for a man just back from Afghanistan?"

"Oh relax, John, this is our stop."

They had approached the entrance to a club called "The Twilight Zone" _(clever)_ , where the bouncer wasn't stopping anyone who looked remotely of age. The crowd outside was full of smokers, drinks in hand, who were chatting loudly, clearly already buzzed _(or maybe never sobered)_. Standing slightly apart, just to the left of the door, was a tall man in a designer suit that was inappropriately dark for the heat, despite it being gone eleven at night. The man raised an inscrutable eyebrow at John as he passed at the back of the pack.

Without knowing quite why, John stopped. A song he vaguely recognized, "Voodoo Mojo," was pouring its electronic bass rhythm onto the pavement. He turned his back on the noise and considered the sky, devoid of stars for the city glow.

"Sweating by the light of the moon, eh?" He offered to the man, who made him feel simultaneously self-conscious and strangely bold. By way of reply, the man lifted an unlit cigarette to his lips and leaned slightly forward. John paused a moment, then, struck by sudden comprehension, hurried to fish a "What Happens in Vegas" novelty lighter from his jeans pocket. He stood staring a moment after transferring the flame. Inhale: poison green eyes. Exhale: icy blue.

'Well then," he said dumbly, "I guess I'll just…" He rolled his shirtsleeves, wishing he could shed his skin, and made his way into the bump and the grind.

Two hours, five tequila shots, and – for some unknown reason – one margarita later, John was finally feeling alright. This is why people come to this city, he thought, making eye contact with a group of drunk women in short skirts at the edge of the dance floor, apparently having as much fun as you can in your clothes.

"Later!" one of the guys yelled into his ear over the pounding of a song that sounded suspiciously like the three before it. "Time to lose a little money."

They wound their way around a bar, through rows of slot machines, around – another bar? _(fuck, no wonder everyone's always wasted in this town)_ – and finally, through a large archway labeled "Vertigo."

"So, what'll it be, mate?" Two of their number waved from a blackjack table. John scanned the room. "Craps," he decided. _Best to go for a game of chance. At least if I lose, it won't be my fault._

"Hard eight!" John's head was spinning. He didn't know how it had happened, but the stack of chips in front of him had grown steadily into several towers, and the crowd around the table had swelled while the number of actual players had dropped to only two. Having finally given up on blackjack, the last two members of his group sidled up to the table.

"What's going on? What'd we miss?"

"Not too much," John answered, smirking. He nodded toward his only opponent. "Just rolling the bones with 'Jimmy No-dice.' Gonna take him for a couple weeks pay."

"Victor," the bloke across the table corrected bitterly. John couldn't be certain through the thrum of the crowd and the copious amount of alcohol flooding his veins, but he thought he detected an English accent.

"Victor, then," he acquiesced, throwing out his most charming smile. "You don't seem to have too much more to wager. How about a friendly bet between countrymen," he ventured.

Victor inclined his head in silent, grudging assent.

"If you lose this roll… I take your girlfriend home."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Then, as if choreographed, it parted, creating a corridor between the table and the club. John's heart stopped. He couldn't believe who came walking out.


	2. Wanted, Dead or Alive

He spoke suddenly through a haze of his own cigarette smoke.

"It's all the same." Another long, bored drag. "Only the names will change."

John wasn't sure about the topic of discussion, as they hadn't exchanged a single word since leaving the casino. Well, to fair, _they_ hadn't exactly left the casino. That tall man whose cigarette he'd lit on the pavement – Victor Trevor's "girlfriend", it turned out – had parted the crowd like the wrong end of a magnet and simply followed him back to his hotel room. They'd been sitting in silence, whiskeys in hand, the one chain smoking, for an hour.

 _Ok, fifteen minutes, but still…_

Uncertain how to respond, John took aim at the habit rather than the man's statement.

"Those things will kill you, you know. 'S been proven."

"Everyday," exaggerated exhale, "it seems we're wasting away. This city is just another place where, despite the abhorrent heat, the faces are so cold." The impassive expression on his inscrutable face stood in stark contrast to the dramatic melancholy of his words. Words that, for some reason, John felt he could relate to.

"Tell me about it. I think I'd fly all night just to get back home."

The stranger leaned forward, sharp elbows on knees, and studied him for a moment. Then, sitting back almost triumphantly, he declared, "You have no home."

"That's not true," came the automatic defense, "I've got a small – "

"I said home, not flat, John."

 _John._ They had never exchanged names. _He must've heard one of the guys say it on my way out, that's all._ It made perfect sense, yet for some reason he was a bit unnerved.

"Yes, I did hear one of your friends say it on the way out. No need to look so alarmed. Although – "

John froze halfway into a relaxed posture. _Although?_

"It is rather curious that for a man with a group of friends concerned enough to accompany him on a holiday abroad, you're still struggling to find an adequate living situation back in London."

"How… would you know?"

"You don't want to know how I know. You want to be intrigued by the mysterious stranger. It's quite alright," he held up a slightly shaking hand at the forthcoming protest, "they all do. Why do you think he doesn't mind me joining you like this?"

"Who doesn't mind?"

Another cigarette was lit. "Victor. Obviously."

 _Victor. Who the hell is… oh, right._ John wasn't surprised he had forgotten Victor – ok he was, but not important now. He was more taken aback by the something stirring in his chest at the sound of another man's name on the stranger's lips. Something he shouldn't be feeling in regard to anyone he hardly knew, let alone another bloke. _Keep talking, it'll pass._

"Why doesn't he mind? I mean you two are… I guess you'd call it… a couple?"

An undisguised sneer. "We have… an arrangement."

John nodded slowly, letting his eyes fall to the glowing amber extension of those long white fingers. And the wrist peeking out of the suit - far too thin for a man that height. Back to the hands, which were still trembling slightly. A quick glance at the traces of sleeplessness around the eyes –

"Ah, ok, I see. _An arrangement._ Well," it wasn't polite, but what about this situation was anyway, "not that it's any of my business, but I am a medical doctor."

"Yes, that's quite apparent in the way you hold your – "

"And you're high right now, aren't you." It wasn't a question, and his semi-invited guest looked away in confirmation. "What do you do for him, then, in exchange?" There was no judgment in his tone, and a surprising amount of concern.

More than he usually heard. _Perhaps more than I've ever heard._ Something about this former soldier was different.

"I deduce people. Humiliate them, normally. I leave the casino with them and they think they've won some prize, but that impression doesn't last long enough for me to remove my jacket. Then I go back with stories. He laughs, and I…"

"Right. Well, have at it then. I've just returned from Afghanistan, have a flat but not a home, mates who'd use me as an excuse to spend a weekend gambling and drinking, made a bargain to take a strange woman back to my room, ended up with a man and didn't refuse… what d'you have to say about me?"

John didn't know why he'd opened up like that, or why he was so intent on ripping himself apart. Maybe it was time for the truth. Maybe leaving it here in another city, with a person he would never share more than a drink with, would never see again, was some form of catharsis. Maybe he hoped he'd be taken down the rest of the way, far enough to see himself for everything he was, enough to finally allow him the ammunition he needed to end it.

"Sometimes I sleep," the stranger replied quietly, "sometimes it's not for days. The people I meet… they all go their separate ways. Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink, and sometimes when I'm alone… all I do is think. John," he paused, waiting.

"Watson."

"Like it or not – you're a cowboy."

John looked up, startled. _What's that supposed to mean?_

"Listen. I play for keeps, because I might not make it back." He stood gracefully, turning to deposit his half-empty glass on the dresser by the door, his cigarette hissing as he extinguished it in the bronze liquid.

"Goodnight, John Watson."

And that was it. He was gone.

John spent the rest of the night tossing under his sheets in frustration, though he couldn't explain what had him so upset. It wasn't until he'd returned from an obscenely large breakfast buffet, third helping of coffee in a takeaway cup, that he noticed the thick, cream-colored business card left under the ashy remains of Jack Daniels.

Clutching it tighter than was necessary, as though he was afraid it would blow away despite the hermetically sealed windows, he flipped it over. There, in a languid blue script, he read:

 _The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street._


	3. You Give Love A Bad Name

He stood on the pavement opposite, one door down, oblivious to the faint wind or the irritated Londoners it carried with it. Over the past 20 minutes, he'd leaned heavily on his cane, watching as the light in the front room had been switched on, casting a warm backlight on the figure tuning his instrument, drawing his bow, and playing unaware of his audience of one.

Staring out at nothing from the first floor window as though dispassionately surveying the kingdom of lesser men below, the man's skin glowed an unearthly white, reflecting the wintry mist descending slowly as evening approached - or perhaps allowing some cold secret to expose itself in this lonely hour.

John granted himself a moment to remember that evening, now 5000 miles away. Though less than a fortnight had passed, the screen of alcohol and fitful sleep had dulled the details and left him with little more than an abnormally poetic recollection.

 _An angel's smile is what you sell_ , he murmured to the increasingly shadowed man across the street. _You promise me heaven, and put me through hell…_

"Shit." His impromptu reverie was broken by a large carrier-bag-wielding bloke smashing against his right shoulder as he passed. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a small slip of paper in the blackened slush by the curb; the address card, though still legible, was soggy and discolored. "Shit!" He wiped it futily on his trouser leg before cramming it safely into his jacket pocket, not sparing a thought for the reason he might be keeping it.

When he returned his attention to the far side of Baker Street, the figure in the window had gone and the room was dark. John remained frozen in place, frustratingly cognizant of both the storm clouds building in the distance and the thought running without permission through his mind: _when passion's a prison, you can't break free._ Shaking his head, he pulled his jacket closer, right hand clutching the wet note as if it were a secret he could not risk giving away. Dragging his feet toward the tube entrance, he failed to notice the man stepping out of the shadows in front of the coffeeshop beside 221b, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground as his long stride closed the distance, unfastened black coat billowing in the winter wind.

* * *

John stopped abruptly two doors down from his own flat. His peripheral vision scanned the alley to his right - dead end - and he became all too aware of the neighborhood's mid-afternoon lull in traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular. He had three options; he chose the third.

"I've a loaded gun." _God, this'd better work. There's nowhere to run._

"Yes," came the lazy baritone close behind him. "Fortunately for me, it's upstairs on the… fifth floor. Dressing table, top right-hand drawer.'

John felt a muscle twitch in his neck, and hoped it wasn't visible.

"Shouldn't keep it loaded, you know. Even with the safety on, there's always a chance you'll… oh. Oh, I see."

John unconsciously flexed his left hand, squared his shoulders, and spun around on his heel to face the man who'd been tailing him since Baker Street.

"What do you want then? Another chance to play your clever little game of humiliation? Victor waiting back at home with a syringe for you to reveal the misery of my existence, then? Poor lonely soldier who never left the war?"

He thought he saw something like sadness flash in those cold grey eyes, but if it was ever there, it was replaced instantly with a smug smile.

"You can spend the afternoon standing open-mouthed outside of my flat, watching me compose from a distance, but I'm berated for following you back to yours - quite openly, I might add. Rather a double-standard, wouldn't you say, doctor?"

"Doctor. How'd you guess?"

"I never guess."

John shifted restlessly from foot to foot. He'd lurked outside the home of a man who'd invited him there. He'd been too… something… to simply knock, watched the man follow him home, and waited until the last moment to confront him aggressively. Everything about this was wrong. It wasn't him. Hadn't been since that night, and he'd known it all along. The worst of it was, it didn't _feel_ wrong. It felt like -

"So tell me, Dr. Watson. Why do you keep a loaded gun in your flat?"

"I thought you'd already guessed that," he replied with an irritation in his voice that barely masked the anxiety he felt at the subject being raised so casually.

"I told you, I never guess. I deduce."

"Fine. Either way - if you know, why d'you need me to tell you?"

"I don't need you to. You need you to. Until you admit it, I can't save you."

"No one can save me."

"You're quite sure about that?" A dark curl fell across his left eye as he tilted his head, his expression reading more intrigued than concerned.

"The damage is done," he stated resolutely. At least, he assumed it sounded resolute. _Who knows how anything sounds to this junkie madman._

"Junkie… perhaps. Madman, no. I simply observe where others merely see. And you, I observe, have been shot through the heart. Though at what moment, precisely, I have yet to determine."

John swallowed hard. "It was the shoulder, in fact."

"I beg to differ."

 _What is he playing at? And who the hell is he to say -_

"You have a smartphone and a laptop. You know perfectly well who I am, or at least, you will in fewer than five minutes. Next time you come to Baker Street -" he reached into his enormous wool coat, smirking as John's jaw dropped when he was handed back his own cane, "knock."

Sherlock Holmes disappeared into rapidly thickening snowfall as John Watson remained there on the pavement, shaking his head in annoyance at himself. _Whatever it is this bloke does,_ he thought, beginning the predicted internet search _, he gives it a bad name._


End file.
